


Give Me An Inch

by breathtaken



Series: Pledge [1]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Canon Era, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Dubious Consent, Explicit Sexual Content, Foursome - M/M/M/M, Gangbang, Initiation, Multi, Polyamory, Sexual Coercion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-04
Updated: 2015-04-04
Packaged: 2018-03-21 05:52:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3680391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/breathtaken/pseuds/breathtaken
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“Admittance to our brotherhood demands not only ability, but mutual trust. We all have to be prepared to give everything for each other. Our lives. Our honour. Our bodies.”</i>
</p><p>A good old-fashioned d’Artagnan sexual initiation fic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Give Me An Inch

**Author's Note:**

> Content notes: **Dub-con sex fic** , in which d'Artagnan's position with the Musketeers is implied to be dependent on sexual favours: while our three Musketeers try to be gentle they're still ultimately coercive, and d'Artagnan's thoroughly into it. This is [a Dead Dove fic](https://fanlore.org/wiki/Dead_Dove:_Do_Not_Eat), and as ever where consent is not meaningful, please read with care. 
> 
> Thank you to everyone who sent me ideas and opinions for this, you're all lovely.

After he helps save Athos’ life, d’Artagnan makes it his mission to become a Musketeer. For one, he has no other purpose: everything connected with _home_ hurts too much to think about, when he has no-one left to go back to, and so he tells himself that this is what Father would have wanted for him. ****

He takes two days to bury him, in the nearest churchyard to the inn where he died; and is back at the Musketeers’ garrison at dawn of the third day, marching up the stairs and knocking sharply on the door to Tréville’s office in search of a commission.

Of course nothing’s ever so easy, even though d’Artagnan’s just saved the life of the man who turns out to be Tréville’s unofficial second-in-command; and when Tréville tells him that if he can persuade any of his men to take him on as an apprentice then Tréville will not stand in his way, but ultimately he must await His Majesty’s favour as they all do, d’Artagnan thinks he probably could have expected as much.

It never once occurs to him to settle for anything less, to find a less prestigious regiment and work on making his name there. He only needs them to give him an inch and he’ll take it and _make_ it work for him, and he doesn’t quite know who he’ll be yet but he does know he plans to go far.

He descends the stairs and positions himself against the bannister there with a hand on his sword hilt, waiting for the three men he knows to come and break their fasts; and when they’re all gathered before him he makes his face as serious and adult as he can and tells them all that he wants to become their apprentice.

Of course nothing’s ever so easy, but they give him another inch, and over the week that follows they put him thoroughly through his paces: they spar with him, Aramis and Porthos first and then Athos himself, up and down the courtyard until his palm’s solidly blistered and his muscles scream every time he raises his blade; he proves his marksmanship, shooting at endless targets while trying to ignore the distraction of Aramis pressed up close behind him and adjusting his stance, the hands on his waist that d’Artagnan suspects are a test in themselves; he faces off against them hand-to-hand, landing in his back on the dirt with the wind knocked out of him over and over until he can’t catch his breath to get up again.

They stop short of taking him to the palace with them, but he’s allowed to accompany them whenever they get their hands a little dirtier. The three of them are as much maverick peacekeepers as a royal guard, d’Artagnan discovers to his surprise, operating unofficially where the city’s Red Guard are too clumsy to tread, and he learns of investigations past and present into everything from major security threats to spates of missing persons.

All these stories are told to him with an air of challenge, as if to imply that a mere Gascon farm boy couldn’t possibly meet the standards of what he now realises are not even ordinary Musketeers, if any Musketeers could be said to be ordinary; but where another might have faltered, their clear skepticism only makes d’Artagnan even more determined to prove his worth, makes him hold his head up high and quietly challenge them all to dare find fault with him, dare judge him unworthy.

They’re in the middle of investigating a ring of counterfeiters, which d’Artagnan quickly gathers is an ongoing city-wide problem composed entirely of frustrating almost-leads that never seem to solidify, involving lots of heavily-armed trips in and out of the Jewish quarter to interrogate slash intimidate various money-lenders; and the first time Athos turns to d’Artagnan and asks him for his opinion, he thinks for a moment that they truly must be having an appalling time of it if _Athos_ is out of ideas, before the rest of his brain catches up and he realises he’s being tested.

After half a day of having every one of his increasingly more outlandish suggestions thoroughly rubbished, he’s almost relieved when they return to the garrison and he spends the last two hours of daylight sparring – or more accurately, being solidly thrashed by each of them in turn – because it means he doesn’t have a moment to wonder if he might indeed have overreached this time.

The light’s fading as Athos pulls d’Artagnan to his feet for the final time, every single muscle in his body protesting – and when Athos keeps their hands clasped, looks solemnly at d’Artagnan as Aramis and Porthos step up to flank him, and says, “Congratulations on earning your apprenticeship,” d’Artagnan is so honest-to-God taken aback that for a moment he comes up completely blank.

“On condition that you continue to perform, of course,” Aramis says mildly – and Athos shoots him a look d’Artagnan can’t read, but it’s forgotten when Porthos adds, “I think you’ve rendered him speechless, Athos.”

“Thank you,” d’Artagnan blurts out, finding his voice at last. “I can’t express –”

He’s telling the truth, apparently; so instead he just squeezes Athos’ hand all the tighter in his own, unable to help wincing when he puts too much pressure in exactly the wrong place.

Immediately Athos drops his hand in concern. “What is it? Are you injured?”

“It’s – my right hand,” d’Artagnan admits reluctantly. “Just blisters.”

He’s fully aware of how green he sounds, and more than a little afraid of their judgement; but Athos just nods tightly, already turning away. “Aramis will see to them for you before dinner,” he replies, walking off in the direction of the armoury.

Porthos claps d’Artagnan on the shoulder, pulling him into an unexpected bear hug that leaves him almost as breathless as any of the times they’ve fought. “Well done,” he rumbles, ruffling d’Artagnan’s hair, and only grinning when d’Artagnan glares at him, before following after Athos.

This leaves d’Artagnan alone with Aramis, who offers his own congratulations before slinging an arm round d’Artagnan’s shoulders and leading him upstairs to his own room, where he lights a candle and sets about applying salve to d’Artagnan’s blistered hand and dressing it with a strip of linen; and d’Artagnan doesn’t know if it’s just the joy of getting to sit down again after such a long day or the fact that nobody but his father’s ever cared for him like this, but he finds himself confessing, “I thought I was doing terribly. Today, at least.”

“That was a test, too,” Aramis replies without looking up, though d’Artagnan can see him smiling where his head’s bent over d’Artagnan’s hand. “We weren’t looking for the right answers. We were looking for evidence of a sharp mind, and humility in admitting when one’s wrong. And determination that persists despite that.”

 _Of course,_ d’Artagnan realises, more relieved than ever that he’d managed to hold his tongue, and keep his temper.

Then it occurs to him that Aramis has just said _we_ , implying that he and Porthos have had just as much say in the decision as Athos has.

“When did you decide? You’ve not had a moment alone all day.”

And Aramis just smiles wider as he ties off the bandage on the back of d’Artagnan’s hand and says, “We didn’t need one.”

D’Artagnan frowns, but the moment’s lost as they head back down for the inevitable argument about where to go for dinner, which Aramis wins this time; and several hours, one extremely welcome beef stew and several glasses of wine later d’Artagnan’s feeling on top of the world, looking around the table at the three men he shares it with (yes, three, Athos staying to drink with them for the first time since d’Artagnan’s arrived) and telling himself, _I’ve done it._

Well. Not entirely; not yet. But he’s won their apprenticeship and (he hopes) their respect, and he’s drunk enough on his own success that when Aramis announces it’s time for the next stage of their evening and leads them all out of the tavern and down a street d’Artagnan doesn’t think he’s ever travelled before he’s not even that curious, content to just trust these men and let them lead him where they will.

Porthos has a hand on the back of his shoulder, hustling him along; and d’Artagnan thinks about protesting that he’s not that drunk but decides he appreciates more that Porthos cares enough for him to put it there. Much as he admires these three Musketeers he has to admit that they’re a queer bunch: one never seen without the others, moving in sync and finishing each other’s stories; the conversation they’ve been having over his head all evening, in a complex language of nods and glances. In many ways they seem more one man than three, and he never really expected to become a part of that, was far too focused on earning an apprenticeship to even think of it – but they’re spending the evening with him and Porthos’ hand is a pleasant weight through the leather of his doublet, and perhaps he dares hope a little after all.

The streets they’re walking through have slowly been changing all the time, drawing closer and darker, and the smell considerably worse – until the four of them turn onto a lane that’s equally narrow but much brighter, every door flanked by lanterns that throw eerie shadows across the walls and the faces of the passers-by, all of whom look to d’Artagnan’s developing city senses like the sort of men who don’t particularly wish to be observed.

Then he notices that all the doors are standing open – _at this hour, in the city?_ –and has just opened his mouth to ask what exactly this place is and what they’re doing here when Aramis grabs him by the back of the neck and manoeuvres him through the door immediately to the right, saying under his breath, “Don’t worry, we’ll explain everything in good time.”

That’s an invitation to keep his mouth shut if he’s ever heard one, and so d’Artagnan does just that, allowing Aramis to hustle him along a corridor and up a flight of narrow stairs, nodding at the hired sword just inside the door as they go past – and into the first room on the left, which turns out to be a _bedroom_ , with the kind of strange shabby glamour which implies that owner had been aiming to convey a sense of luxury but simply hadn’t the coin to do it justice.

As Athos shuts the door behind them, Aramis announces, “Porthos will be along in a minute” - and d’Artagnan notices belatedly that it is indeed just the three of them suddenly – unbuckling his weapons belt and hanging it on a chair against the wall before unbuttoning his doublet entirely, then flopping down onto the bed.

Athos, who’s standing just beyond the reach of the opening door with his arms folded and making no attempt to make himself comfortable at all, glares at Aramis, who only smiles all the wider.

D’Artagnan follows Aramis’ lead, removing his belt and hanging it over his on the chair, not sure what else he’s meant to do. While he’s fairly sure they wouldn’t answer if he asked, he can’t help hoping he’ll learn to read all these wordless glances and expressions some time soon. He still doesn’t know what they’re all doing here, and his curiosity’s starting to eat at him.

Then he hears a noise through the wall that sounds like a lady, in pain; and he’s just opening his mouth to ask what’s going on, if they should go and help, why nobody else is moving when the noise comes again, louder and longer, and he realises with slowly-mounting shock that it’s definitely not one of _pain_.

He looks between them and demands, “Is this a _brothel?_ ”

Nobody answers him; instead Athos looks over at Aramis and comments, “Not _completely_ unobservant, then.”

Athos’ completely unwarranted sarcasm is enough to make d’Artagnan draw himself up through his spine and puff out his chest in indignation as the door clicks open – admitting Porthos – but when he opens his mouth, it’s honest confusion that wins out. “I don’t understand, are you getting me a _woman_ …?”

“Oh, we won’t be needing a woman,” Porthos replies with a grin, taking d’Artagnan’s arm and leading him to the bed, where he pushes him gently down so that he’s sat next to Aramis, Porthos removing his weapons belt just as Aramis had and then sitting down the other side of him, stretching his legs out. Athos stays standing, and another one of those looks passes between the three of them.

It’s starting to get annoying, and not a little unnerving, and d’Artagnan is psyching himself up to demand an explanation when Aramis leans back on his hands and says perfectly matter-of-factly, “This is your initiation, d’Artagnan. As our apprentice.”

D’Artagnan frowns – some sort of trial? A ceremony? – but Athos is already picking up the thread. “Admittance to our brotherhood demands not only ability, but mutual trust.” His eyes meet d’Artagnan’s, expression grave. “We all have to be prepared to give everything for each other. Our lives. Our honour.” His expression flickers, his next words dying on his lips.

Behind d’Artagnan, Aramis says, “Our bodies.”

D’Artagnan’s head whips round in shock – and then back again just as quickly when Porthos puts a hand on his knee.

“What they’re trying to say is,” he grins, pausing for effect, “we mean to have you.”

D’Artagnan drops his gaze, heart hammering in his chest as he tries to make sense of – no, they _must_ mean that, what else could they mean –

 _Who told you?_ is his first thought – but of course not, nobody could have told them, nobody knows… but perhaps they can sense it in him somehow, the impure thoughts that he thought he’d put entirely behind him, locked away deep in his heart where nobody could touch them.

“Do you understand what we’re saying?”

Aramis, again, his hand now resting on d’Artagnan’s shoulder; and d’Artagnan racks his brains furiously to try and figure out what exactly a gentleman is supposed to do in a situation like _this,_ as if anyone could ever have forewarned him. Call them out, he supposes, but he can hardly call _all_ of them out, even if he wanted to, even if –

“You mock me,” is all he manages to come up with, his voice weak to his own ears.

“I assure you, we do not.” Athos answers him this time – and d’Artagnan’s head snaps up in surprise. Athos’ expression, as usual, is impenetrable. “The matter is quite serious.”

He expects Athos to go on, to explain somehow; but he abruptly closes his mouth again and just looks steadily at d’Artagnan, who can’t quite bear to hold his gaze.

He cannot believe this a prank, not when Athos is here too, talking of trust and brotherhood – and besides, the subject matter is entirely too taboo to be spoken of lightly. No, their expectations must be in earnest; and he says nothing for quite a few moments, trying to master himself, torn between the realisation that he _must_ acquiesce if he is to keep his place, and the fear that the whole experience will be painful and humiliating… or even worse, that he might like it all too much.

Though he would have never dared think about the three of them like _that_ , they are all undeniably handsome, in their own ways, and _they mean to lie with him_ and he –

They are his brothers now, and he must do what is asked of him.

He will do it. He will lie with them, and look upon it as a duty – a bond of trust, as Athos said – and thus it will not matter whether it is unpleasant or not.

He sets his jaw and raises his head again, looking Athos in the eye. “Very well.”

Athos just nods slightly, accepting his decision, but making no move towards the bed; and it’s Aramis who takes d’Artagnan’s chin in hand, turning his face towards him and forcing him to meet his eyes. “It’s alright,” he croons, as if he’s talking to a skittish animal. He really is disarmingly handsome, d’Artagnan decides, even more so up close. “We don’t mean to humiliate you. Do you trust us to make this pleasurable?”

 _Trust_ , after all, being what this is all about.

D’Artagnan nods mutely, ignoring the sudden lump in his throat, as Aramis leans forward and pulls him into a kiss.

D’Artagnan hadn’t expected _this;_ and he opens his mouth in pure surprise, which Aramis clearly takes as encouragement, as he wraps a hand around the back of his head and presses in deeper, stroking his tongue against d’Artagnan’s just once before pulling back, his expression all warmth and approval.

“There you go,” he hums, stroking his fingers along the underside of d’Artagnan’s jaw. “That’s a good start.”

D’Artagnan knows, somewhere in the back of his mind, that he should object thoroughly to being handled like this, coddled and coaxed; but in truth he feels so utterly at sea here that he finds himself welcoming it, glowing at Aramis’ words of praise before he remembers he mustn’t seem too eager, or what will they think of him –

– and already he’s being turned around and he’s kissing Porthos, his hands large against d’Artagnan’s jaw and his movements determined, and it’s all d’Artagnan can do just to remember to follow Porthos’ lead and not open his mouth too readily, not look too _keen_.

Still Porthos seems to kiss all the air from his lungs, pulling away to leave him wide-eyed and breathless, beaming as he twists round and calls out, “Your turn, Athos!”

When d’Artagnan follows his gaze, he sees that Athos doesn’t seem to have moved a muscle since they came into this room, still standing apart, though at least he’s taken his hat off; and now he puts it down on the sideboard before crossing the room with a sudden, determined stride that puts d’Artagnan in mind of the way he’s had to summon up his own courage tonight, and fills him with a surprising flush of empathy.

But when he reaches him, Athos bends down and hauls d’Artagnan’s face up to meet his without ceremony, hard, and with a passion that takes d’Artagnan entirely by surprise. He still has his gloves on, the leather against his cheeks a delicious counterpoint to the softness of Athos’ lips on his, closed-mouthed – when bare fingers stroke down d’Artagnan’s neck and shock him into a hiss of surprise and desire, his cock stirring for the first time.

Athos pulls back suddenly, and they’re left staring at each other, their faces inches apart and both of them breathing heavily, and d’Artagnan finds himself wondering if things have got just as out of hand for Athos as they have for him.

“What is it, d’Artagnan? Are you hurt?” Aramis asks him, mock-innocently – Porthos chuckles – and d’Artagnan feels his face heat, knowing they’re mocking him, it’s not like they didn’t recognise the sound he let slip past his defences; but there’s nothing he can say to defend himself, and so he bites his tongue, and considers the merits of pulling away from Athos’ gloved hands, still cupping his face.

“ _Aramis_ ,” Athos warns, and d’Artagnan feels so absurdly grateful for a moment that he wants to bury his face against Athos’ chest in search of comfort; though he stops himself because he’s a man and not a boy, and the only thing grounding him at the moment is his resolve not to give himself up too easily, not just roll over and let them have him.

But the thought of doing just that – of _submitting_ to them, however hazy he is on the details – has his cock hardening even further; and he bites his lip, determined to stay silent.

“Time we gave you a full examination, then,” Porthos growls, his voice doing something to d’Artagnan’s insides that he doesn’t want to examine too closely – and are those hands at the laces of his doublet? “Make sure nothing’s amiss.”

Athos looks on the brink of objecting – which even d’Artagnan thinks is absurd, if they all mean to have him then surely they should just get on with it – before he shares another look with the two of them and drops his hands, stepping back.

“Don’t let me stop you,” he announces, walking around the bed entirely and out of d’Artagnan’s sight lines, his movements followed by the double thumping sound of a man kicking off his boots.

Abandoned by Athos entirely, d’Artagnan turns reluctantly back to Aramis and Porthos, both watching him with matching predatory expressions, all too aware that he’s shamefully half-hard and the feeling’s only persisting.

It’s Aramis who claps him on the shoulder and says without preamble, “Right, d’Artagnan. Clothes off.”

For a moment, d’Artagnan almost considers refusing.

But no, he’s going to endure this as a duty of his apprenticeship, he’s already decided that; and so he pulls his boots off before standing abruptly and stripping entirely without ceremony, willing his erection to go down, glad that Aramis and Porthos at least appear to be doing exactly the same beside him, though Athos is of course still on the far side of the bed, still _watching,_ and _oh God that is not helping is it._

D’Artagnan thinks he might just admire Athos the most of the three. He’s certainly the most intimidating, restrained and self-possessed, a clear leader; and Athos means to have him tonight, they _all_ do, and d’Artagnan knows it’s shameful but he _wants_ it, enough to make his legs tremble and his heart race to think of it.

 _It’s about trust_ , he reminds himself. He needs to trust them with _everything_ , including this; and he will. He’ll trust them to be reasonably gentle with him, at least, not to humiliate him completely.

He believes that this isn’t meant to be an ordeal, after all. They wouldn’t have _kissed_ him, were that true.

With that thought, he pulls off the rest of his clothes until he’s completely bare, grits his teeth, and turns back to face his new brothers.

Where the first thing he sees is that Aramis and Porthos aren’t naked at all, but like Athos have only removed their doublets and boots. Aramis has positioned himself at the head of the bed beside Athos and Porthos at the foot, all three of them looking him up and down.

Through the sudden fog of nerves d’Artagnan latches onto Aramis, who’s patting the mattress between his spread legs, saying softly, “Come.”

He follows his orders without a moment’s hesitation, getting up onto the bed and sitting where Aramis has directed without saying a word, or meeting anyone’s eye, pulling his legs up to his chest, just about managing to hold himself still when Aramis rests his hands on his shoulders.

“Sore?” he asks, squeezing the ridges of his shoulders, and making d’Artagnan wince.

“Yes,” he confesses, deciding he might as well; it’s not like they didn’t all see him struggling earlier, barely able to lift his sword against Athos by the time dusk fell.

“Alright, just relax,” Aramis replies, digging his thumbs into the meat of d’Artagnan’s shoulder muscles in deep, circling movements – and it’s only now d’Artagnan realises Aramis has coated his hands in some sort of oil, pleasantly fragrant, and they’re sliding warm and easy over his sore muscles, relaxing him despite himself, despite the deep ache his touch is bringing with it.

“We are putting you through the wringer, aren’t we,” Porthos agrees, leaning forward to look over d’Artagnan’s bare torso. “Blisters on your palm, plenty of bruising…”

To d’Artagnan’s horror, Porthos reaches out and spreads his thighs, with a firm unyielding grip.

“…and quite a bit of swelling too, it seems,” he finishes, amusement plain in his voice.

D’Artagnan closes his eyes, mortified to have been discovered so soon; and the feeling only gets worse when he realises that having them _know_ only seems to make him even more turned on.

He’s sure he shouldn’t like this; but what can he do?

“Oh, that’s terrible,” Aramis replies, entirely insincere, massaging his way down d’Artagnan’s shoulder blades in ever-growing circles. “Perhaps you should kiss it better.”

His eyes snap open again in shock – just in time to see Porthos grinning as he replies, “Hmm. Don’t mind if I do. Would you like that, then?”

And d’Artagnan doesn’t dare say anything at all, just stares – because he’d thought they all just meant to use him, but for Porthos to be lying between his legs, ready to put his _mouth on his –_ and looking so _relaxed_ about it too –

It’s Athos who saves him once again, looking over and chiding, “Stop teasing him.”

Porthos looks at Athos, back at Aramis and shrugs – d’Artagnan thinks he knows this one, it’s _oh well_ – and pitches forward onto his forearms, his mouth connecting with the head of d’Artagnan’s cock a moment later.

 _God_ it’s good _,_ so warm and wet _;_ and d’Artagnan feels himself being pulled back against Aramis’ body until his head’s resting against his chest as Porthos’ hands come up to grip his thighs and hold them wide, pressing sloppy kisses down and up d’Artagnan’s shaft, swirling his tongue around the head.

He can hardly believe the proof of his senses, going as this does against everything he’d expect of a Musketeer; and he’s still gaping when Porthos lifts his head, winking at d’Artagnan before mock-complaining to Aramis, “Oh, I don’t know, it just seems to be getting worse.”

“Worse is better,” Aramis replies brightly, “haven’t I taught you anything?”

“Like you had to teach me,” Porthos retorts; and d’Artagnan barely has a moment to try and work out what he means before Porthos’ mouth is back around his cock, this time taking him in deep until he’s bumping the back of Porthos’ throat, caressing with his tongue, making him gasp with a pleasure that can’t be repressed.

“Good, that’s good,” Aramis murmurs in his ear, “you just enjoy that,” and d’Artagnan wonders if it had truly been so obvious that he was holding back, and how he ever could have thought that necessary when Porthos will do _this_ for him, will – well.

He would have called it _debasement_ , were it asked of him, but he would not dare say such a thing of these men he so admires; and the enormity of it’s a little too much to deal with, so he just leans back against Aramis and braces his hands on his brother’s knees, watching Porthos’ mouth sliding back and forth on his cock.

When Aramis’ hands stroke down the front of his shoulders and brush over his nipples, he sucks in a shocked breath at the spike of arousal that surges through him – and then regrets it immediately as he feels a sudden stillness descend around him, realises the attention he’s drawn.

“ _Oh_. _Very_ interesting,” Aramis murmurs appreciatively, his hands stilling over d’Artagnan’s chest – and Porthos, too, has frozen in place on his cock. “Off you get, Porthos, I want to see if he still makes those noises when you’re not going down on him.”

Porthos obediently releases d’Artagnan’s cock, sliding thick and hard from his lips with an obscene popping sound, and sits back on his haunches to watch. D’Artagnan closes his eyes against the flush of humiliation and turns his face into Aramis’ neck so he can’t make the mistake of meeting anyone’s eyes as Aramis’ still-oily fingers start to circle his nipples, gritting his teeth against the rush of sensation the touch brings with it, the noises that want to escape from his lips.

“D’Artagnan. Look at me.”

A hand takes his – and it’s _Athos_ , who’s hardly touched him, who’s barely spoken since that one kiss; and d’Artagnan reluctantly turns his head to meet his eyes, fearful of what he’ll see there.

“Don’t hold back. That’s an order.” Athos’ hand is warm and his grip firm in his, his eyes wide and earnest. “We need to hear you. Just let it go.”

 _Trust_ , d’Artagnan thinks, nodding shakily; and this time when Aramis takes both his nipples and rolls them between thumb and forefinger, he keeps his eyes on Athos’ and lets himself gasp in pleasure.

“Good,” is all Athos says in reply, but that simple word of approval settles under d’Artagnan’s heart and buoys him until he feels almost like he’s floating, worth more to him than even Aramis’ honeyed praise or Porthos’ cheerful encouragement –

Perhaps this is more than just mere _admiration._

But _God_ , that’s the last thing he wants to think about right now, while he’s entirely at their mercy, especially when he still has no idea what all this is to them (a test? A tradition? Something to endure?).

It’s slowly coming home to him how little he really knows of soldiering.

They claim they don’t want to humiliate him, but they want to _hear_ him; he knows the facts, but they’re just too slippery for his mind to grasp long enough to put together, and Aramis’ fingers are wringing both breath and thoughts from him, the pressure on his nipples turning to pain and back to pleasure again, and Athos squeezes his fingers once more and says so quietly that it takes d’Artagnan a moment to understand, “There is peace to be found in surrender.”

“That’s it,” Aramis croons, right by his ear – and Porthos’ hands are back on him, not on his cock but stroking his thighs, his balls, the skin behind, “we’ve got you. Just let go. Athos can make it an order, if it helps.”

This time when Athos gives Aramis a look, for the first time d’Artagnan can see clear as day that it’s exasperation barely masking fondness, and he can imagine Aramis’ self-satisfied grin in return – and it’s that, somehow, that makes it all alright to do just as they’re asking and let go, close his eyes and roll his head back on Aramis’ shoulder and let him keep playing with his nipples without worrying that he likes it, or that he might like _them_ all too much.

 _We follow orders_ , he thinks hazily, moving his hand in Athos’ grip just to feel the bare skin against his, letting Porthos roll his legs up to his chest and feeling Aramis shift behind him, back and forth and nudging a hardness against d’Artagnan’s back that he hadn’t registered before now, that makes him think dimly, _oh_.

But when Porthos’ fingers brush against his entrance he still flinches, every instinct he has saying _no, painful, wrong_ ; and immediately there are hands at his face and neck, petting and soothing as Aramis says, “It’s alright. Relax. It’s alright.”

“Will it hurt?” d’Artagnan can’t help asking, hearing himself small and scared.

“Not with us,” Aramis replies with certainty, his fingers stroking d’Artagnan’s hair. “I can tell you that from experience. It will feel strange, maybe ache a little, but if there’s real pain then something’s very wrong.”

 _Experience?_ d’Artagnan thinks – and that with Porthos’ comment about Aramis not having to teach him slots into place, and he’s suddenly _burning_ to know all of it, what they’ve done and who they’ve had, if someone’s had them…?

He asks the most innocuous question he can think of: “Do you do this with all your apprentices?”

It’s Athos who replies, calm and collected and with just an edge of something d’Artagnan can’t interpret, “You’re our first.”

And just as d’Artagnan’s jaw falls slack with the enormity of that statement and all – _all_ – its possible meanings Porthos touches him again, some sort of slick, rocking pressure back and forth over his hole, strange, it’s true, but _good_ – and d’Artagnan’s moan this time is as much in surprise as desire.

Aramis chuckles; Athos gives Porthos a look, to which he shrugs a little and grins, “I was getting bored. And you two were letting him think too much.”

“I do beg your pardon,” Athos comments dryly, as he twists himself around and to d’Artagnan’s thorough surprise, leans over to kiss him.

He has to stop again almost immediately, as there’s a bit of shifting and rearranging that ends with d’Artagnan thoroughly on his back with his legs tucked up to his chest, his head on Aramis’ shoulder with Athos stretched out alongside him, mostly on his front, his hand still in his. Porthos is lying along the end of the bed with his head propped on his left hand and his right pressing relentlessly over d’Artagnan’s entrance, over and over as Athos kisses him again, turning d’Artagnan’s face to his, his lips a soft and steady pressure as Aramis rolls d’Artagnan’s nipple between thumb and finger, and _talks._

“I’m going to have you first,” he murmurs, voice low and seductive, drawing the words out, _enjoying_ them. “When you’re ready for it, Porthos is going to open you up, stretch you nice and open, ready to take my cock. And I’m going to put you on your hands and knees and just open my breeches and fuck you so slowly, till you’re sweating and shaking and begging to come just from my cock in your arse, but we won’t let you come so soon because you’ve still got two to go.” He punctuates his words with a vicious pinch to d’Artagnan’s nipple, making him gasp into Athos’ mouth. “Do you want to know who’s going to fuck you next?”

“Who?” d’Artagnan twists away from Athos to ask, his thoughts in a whirl.

“Mmm.” Aramis makes a show of considering. “No, I think you have to do something for us first.” He reaches out and strokes his fingers over d’Artagnan’s face, a look passing between him and Athos that d’Artagnan feels too wild to even try and interpret. “Take Porthos’ fingers inside you. Two of them, up to the hilt. Then I’ll tell you.”

D’Artagnan clenches involuntarily – he can’t help it – and closes his eyes in a wash of shame, feeling at least three hands starting to caress, Porthos’ knuckles stilling against his arse and his other hand stroking lightly up his shaft as he says, “D’Artagnan. Look at me.”

He reluctantly meets his eyes, steeling himself against whatever words of reassurance are to come; but Porthos simply pats his thigh and says, “We’ll start with one. Go slowly. Just tell me when.”

He came here to prove himself, didn’t he? To prove that he has what it takes to be a Musketeer. And if this is part of what it takes, then, well –

He may be on his back for them, but he still has his pride, and his dignity.

“Do it,” he says, in a voice that does not waver.

“Alright,” Porthos grins, sitting up and reaching for a little glass bottle d’Artagnan hadn’t noticed before, dribbling more oil onto his fingers and smearing it across d’Artagnan’s hole before shifting himself into a kneeling position and pressing against him with one finger, a little harder than before, d’Artagnan feeling his body already starting to give.

“Don’t tense up,” Aramis says, his hand stroking d’Artagnan’s shin. “Bear down a little, it helps.”

He turns his head to press his lips to d’Artagnan’s forehead, and d’Artagnan does as he’s bid, hearing Porthos say, “Yeah, that’s it,” as the unnatural pressure against him increases until he feels himself being breached, sharp and new and strange, enough to have him gasping and tightening his grip on Athos’ hand.

“Alright?” Athos murmurs, his lips barely moving – though d’Artagnan thinks that what he sees in his eyes is something like concern.

“Yes. It’s – strange, as you said,” d’Artagnan manages, wondering why he’s breathless. Why he’s a little _scared_ , even, though he would never admit it to them; he’s always thought of sex as something easy and natural, just lifting the skirts of a willing maiden (or more often than not, a neglected young wife) and making them both feel good.

There, of course, his desires align with what’s expected of him; here he’s entirely off the map, with only the three of them as his guides, all his ideas of what he should and shouldn’t want lying in ruins at his feet, and nothing to fall back on except the touch of their hands.

Then Porthos starts to move his finger, sliding oh so slowly back and forth – and is this what it’s like to be a woman, surely not, he doesn’t know how they could _stand_ it –

“Breathe,” he hears Aramis murmur above him, “breathe,” and yes, it helps a little when he takes gasping lungfuls of air, finding Aramis’ hand with his free one and gripping it as Porthos keeps moving his finger, it feels like he’s on the knife-edge of too much _already_ , how will he ever take a _cock_ in there, _all_ of their cocks –

“You can do it,” Athos says suddenly, as if he’s reading his mind, the hand that’s not gripping d’Artagnan’s moving to his cock – which has softened, d’Artagnan realises belatedly, this is the first time Athos has touched him there and he’s not even _hard_ , though Athos’ grip is firm and _good_ and helps take his mind off the finger working his arse just a little. “You’re going to take it, because we know you can. We wouldn’t ask it of you otherwise.”

At least half of d’Artagnan wants to laugh a little hysterically – he can’t see it, he just _can’t_ – but at the same time Athos’ words strike something deep, and he knows enough at least to know they’re the only ones keeping him above water here, that he needs them.

“So I should take your orders?” he asks, with a flash of his usual cheek that comes seemingly from nowhere; and can’t help smiling when Aramis chuckles against his forehead, and even Athos’ lip twitches in what might almost be a smile.

“We’re all just vessels for another’s will, d’Artagnan,” Aramis says lightly, his thumb running over d’Artagnan’s knuckles as Athos strokes him properly and he feels himself starting to harden again, realises that Porthos’ finger is still moving in him, but the intensity of it’s receded to the point where he thinks he might just be able to bear this, and even a little more. “Our captain, our King, our God. We do as we are bid, and we trust our brothers to take our weight when we need them to. That is the lesson.” And just as d’Artagnan’s starting to gape – are they just fucking with him or is this _seriously how they_ – Aramis grins and adds, “Porthos? He’s ready for another finger.”

And d’Artagnan sighs and lets his head loll a little against Aramis’ shoulder, hoping they will think the jagged sigh that escapes him is only lust and not _relief_ that the choice is not his to make, nor the responsibility his to bear. His brothers – for he has brothers now – will command him, take him and have him, and all he has to do is obey.

When Porthos’ second finger breaches him he grits his teeth and grips their hands against the stretch and the burn of it, feeling their other hands roam across his body, tugging his nipples and coaxing his cock back to hardness, touching his hair and his face, soothing and grounding as he gasps against Aramis’ neck, against Athos’ lips, telling himself he’ll take it, take it and make it work for him, he _will_.

From gentleman farmer to apprentice Musketeer, he’s fought his way here on sheer determination, and he won’t let one night on his back defeat him.

Then Porthos does something with his fingers, something white-hot and _incredible_ inside him that sends all d’Artagnan’s thoughts flying from his mind entirely, makes him buck and moan before three sets of hands press him back against the mattress as he stares up into Athos’ face in wordless astonishment.

“That’s why people do this,” Athos replies – and no, that _is_ a smile, d’Artagnan’s sure of it. “Don’t question it. Just accept.” He looks over at Porthos. “But no more of that just yet, I think.”

“Well, you are the tactician,” Porthos agrees, voice rich with amusement, though d’Artagnan’s barely still following at this point.

And oh, they make it so _easy_ just to accept. To let – _God_ , he’s so hard now, and he’s not close yet but it’s just so _good_ , the hand on his cock is exerting barely any pressure and he wants more of it, a beautiful counterpoint to the slick slide of fingers inside him, and now that he thinks about it he can tell that his body is loosening, accepting just as his mind is, that they’re giving this to him and he’s going to take everything they have to give, because what else is he here for?

When Porthos’ fingers slide out without warning and leave him empty he doesn’t know what’s happening for a moment, frowning and blinking up at Athos in confusion. “What –?”

“It’s time,” Athos replies gently, squeezing d’Artagnan’s hand once more before disentangling his fingers – and _oh_ , d’Artagnan realises, his stomach churning a little with nerves as Aramis encourages him off his shoulder and into a sitting position, a hand on his neck as he says, “You know what to do. Hands and knees. Or forearms, rather, I don’t want you putting any unnecessary pressure on those blisters.”

“You never gave him his reward,” Porthos points out from the far side of the room, where he’s washing his hands – and that’s enough to have d’Artagnan falter for a moment before he realises what’s being referred to, before the hand on his neck pushes down and he lets himself pitch forward with it, catching himself on his left hand before sinking down to rest on his arms.

“How remiss of me,” Aramis replies lightly, as another hand slides appreciatively over the curve of d’Artagnan’s arse, exposed and vulnerable, “and I’m afraid I’m going to be otherwise occupied. Perhaps one of you good gentlemen could take over?”

Another _look_ over his head – he thinks he can feel them now, sense the change in the men around him when communication passes silently between them – and then the hand on his neck disappears, the mattress shifting beside and behind him as he’s lifted under the armpits and hauled into Porthos’ lap, resting his weight on one thigh as Porthos’ hands go to the buttons at his crotch, above the hard length outlined against the leather.

“While I’d like nothing more than to have you arch your back and fuck your throat while Aramis fucks your arse, we’ve gotta keep it realistic,” Porthos says – entirely without preamble, d’Artagnan’s face heating immediately as he can’t help imagining exactly that. “So I’m gonna give you something to get acquainted with.” He pulls his breeches fully open over his crotch, and starts to unlace his braies. “And you can suck as much or as little as you want while I tell you what’s coming after.”

“And – Athos?” D’Artagnan asks, as he starts to smell Porthos’ arousal, trying for all the world to make it sound as though he’s asking out of curiosity and not out of _need_.

“I’m here,” Athos replies, and d’Artagnan turns his head to see Athos slotting in and pressing himself along Porthos’ side, Porthos putting his arm around Athos’ shoulders and pulling him in, as Athos lifts his hand to d’Artagnan’s jaw, pressing his thumb against his lower lip until it falls open.

Though he hasn’t seen any of them touch each other, the intimacy of their posture makes him wonder – and then the thought is lost entirely as Porthos finishes unlacing his braies and pulls his cock out, dark and hard and _big_ , bigger than d’Artagnan can imagine fitting in either his mouth or his arse, enough to have him pushing his face into Athos’ hand in search of reassurance.

“Come on now,” Porthos coaxes, his low deep and commanding, as his hand wraps around the base and angles his cock towards d’Artagnan’s lips. “Just a little taste.”

As d’Artagnan obediently opens his mouth and stretches just a little further forward until his lips close around the head of Porthos’ cock, the mattress shifts again behind him and something large and blunt nudges at his entrance, something that doesn’t feel like it could possibly fit.

“Shh. Relax,” Porthos croons, his hand coming up to cradle d’Artagnan’s scalp. “I had three fingers in you just now. If you can handle that, then you can handle Aramis.”

D’Artagnan blinks in surprise – he doesn’t remember a third at all – and gives Porthos’ cockhead an experimental swipe with his tongue which has him groaning, a deep rumble of pleasure that makes d’Artagnan feel strangely satisfied despite himself, just as Aramis starts to push – push – and _God_ , he feels so big, and no matter what Porthos just said d’Artagnan half-thinks it _just won’t fit,_ until there’s a giving and he’s _in –_

“Hey, watch those teeth,” Porthos chides, pulling his cock out of d’Artagnan’s mouth and resting it against his cheek. “Just use your lips. Yeah, like that,” as d’Artagnan starts to press wet, messy kisses up and down his shaft, trying desperately hard to let go and just let the hands on his face and head guide him as Aramis presses deeper inside, the ragged groan coming from his mouth mirroring the one he hears from behind him.

God, he’s so _full_ , he wouldn’t have thought it possible.

“D’Artagnan,” Porthos says, with a tug on his hair for emphasis that makes d’Artagnan realise it’s not the first time Porthos has said his name, “You listening? Right. After Aramis, it’s my turn. Now you’ve got your mouth on my cock, you know I’m big. But you’ll be all loose and slick with Aramis’ come dripping out of you, and you’ll take it all, and I’m gonna put you on your back and fuck you till you come, ‘cause you’ll last through Aramis but you won’t last through me too, and I’m going to make that lovely pert arse clench all around me, make you shoot all over yourself.”

“ _Ohh_ ,” d’Artagnan moans, burying his face against the base of Porthos’ cock, just riding out the exquisite shame of it, his own flagging cock twitching and filling again at the idea of being so spread out and filled, on display for them all.

And then Aramis starts to move, and it’s all he can do not to dissolve into a mass of writhes and whimpers as he feels every inch of his cock dragging so sweetly inside of him, pulling back until just the head’s still inside him and then surging forward again, Aramis’ hands hot on his hips and the leather of his breeches cool against d’Artagnan’s arse as he’s filled to the hilt once more.

“Let it go,” Athos’ voice cuts through the haze of sensation, “let us hear it,” and d’Artagnan obeys before he realises it, mouthing again at Porthos’ shaft, hoarse, jagged moans wrung from him every time Aramis moves inside him, so much and he realises dimly, so _good._

It seems to go on forever. Porthos pulls him back onto his cock and d’Artagnan just about has the presence of mind to cover his teeth with his lips, suckling at the head, letting himself drool a little without worrying about whether he looks too eager, too willing to let himself be used like this.

He thinks it’s Athos’ hand that’s on the back of his neck, holding him down as he slides his mouth up and down Porthos’ shaft as much as he can manage with Aramis holding him firmly in place behind. He hopes it is, though he’s too strung-out to understand why, just wants them all to be touching him somehow, with him throughout, surrounding him as his arousal builds and builds.

He yelps in pain and indignation when someone – Aramis? – grabs his balls and yanks them down _hard_ – and it must be Aramis because there’s a hand in the small of his back again, rubbing circles and saying, “Excuse the indignity, d’Artagnan, but I couldn’t have you coming just yet. Not while the night is still so young.”

“Mm-mm,” d’Artagnan hums around Porthos’ cock, making him groan in approval and muss d’Artagnan’s hair with his hand. He hadn’t even realised he was close; he supposes he doesn’t know the signs, not like this when everything feels so different, every nerve inside him singing in a manner just short of overwhelming as he feels Aramis’ slide in and out start to lose some of its steadiness, hips snapping into d’Artagnan’s arse faster and harder, thinks he must be getting close.

Then he’s pulled backwards off Porthos’ cock, his large hand pressing d’Artagnan’s head against his thigh again as he says, “That’s enough for now.”

D’Artagnan’s searching for words to object just as Aramis shifts and does that _thing_ to him again, finds that place inside him that has pleasure flooding through him like a warm wave, turning his gasps of pleasure into a long drawn-out moan that has him grasping at Porthos’ leathers with his fingers, pressing his face into the hands touching his, closing his eyes again and gasping for air as Aramis thrusts _hard –_ once – twice – and shudders and comes, jerking and shooting warm inside him and he can _feel_ it, feel himself being _filled_ and it’s – it’s –

Aramis seems to collapse on him a little, then presses a kiss to his spine before pulling slowly out – and God, it’s a _relief_ and it’s horrible all at the same time, to be so filled and to suddenly be so empty – but it means he can collapse against Porthos’ thigh without worrying about the danger of making any sudden movements, just let himself be petted and suck the fingers on his lips into his mouth, swirling with his tongue – pale fingers, Athos’ fingers – and wonder what Athos will give him, if he’ll tell him exactly how he’s going to fuck him, just like Aramis and Porthos have.

He aches, his cock and his balls and _inside_ ; and it’s manageable, he thinks, it has to be because he’s still got two of them to take, and while he didn’t get to _see_ Aramis hard he’s sure that Porthos is going to be significantly bigger.

Still. There was a point where he thought he couldn’t take _any_ of them; and here he is, still hard, nothing painful and nothing broken, just three sets of hands rolling him onto his back and Aramis, now only in shirt and braies, leaning over him propped up against Porthos’ thigh and kissing him soft and sweet.

“Well, you have my seal of approval at least,” he quips, sitting up and leaning back on his hands, looking thoroughly relaxed. “Do you need anything? A drink? A few moments to recover?”

“I could use a drink, actually,” d’Artagnan confesses.

Aramis gets back up from the bed and reaches under the chair against the wall, where someone’s apparently stowed a bottle of wine, and d’Artagnan sits up and drinks gratefully, passing the bottle around.

He feels – alright, he decides, looking cautiously between his three new brothers. He may be the only one who’s naked (naked and… wet, with the combination of oil and Aramis’ seed he’s as slick as a woman between his legs), though Aramis is only in his linens and Porthos appears entirely unconcerned by the fact that he still has his cock out; but though the whole thing feels rather surreal, he doesn’t feel humiliated, or that they’re treating him any differently for having been fucked.

Which makes him wonder, again.

“Is this…?”

He starts to ask the question before he can think better of it, and falters as all of their gazes meet his expectantly.

“I’m afraid we can’t read your mind,” Athos prompts gently, when he doesn’t continue.

“Ah, I mean. Among soldiers. Is this.” His face is heating and he can’t quite meet any of their eyes, until Aramis shifts up close, draping an arm around his waist.

“Officially it’s forbidden, of course,” he explains, holding his other hand out again for the bottle and taking a swig, “but we soldiers are practical men. We spend long months away from female company and emphasise the bonds between comrades, we understand that there are going to be times a man needs to turn to his brothers in this, too.” Then the hand on d’Artagnan’s waist drops lower without warning, pressing down to d’Artagnan’s entrance and making him hiss. “But I think we need to get you on your back before you leak all over the blankets.”

D’Artagnan ducks his head against Aramis’ audible amusement and Porthos’ chuckle, but then he feels fingers under his chin, and he lifts his head again and reluctantly meets Athos’ eyes.

“You’re doing well,” he says simply, kissing d’Artagnan on the corner of the mouth, his beard brushing his lips. “Come, lie back against me.”

Athos arranges himself against the headboard on a mound of blankets and d’Artagnan follows him gratefully down, lying mostly across the bed on his back with his head in Athos’ lap, looking up at him with a trust which he realises suddenly is fast becoming absolute, even though he doesn’t always understand.

He will, one day. He’ll be included in every look, learn every particular quirk of a lip or an eyebrow, know these men as well as he knows himself. He has faith.

Athos’ hand twitches where it’s resting against his head – and d’Artagnan can see the moment something else catches his attention.

“Look,” he says, a new catch in his voice – but d’Artagnan’s already turning his head to see Aramis and Porthos kneeling up on the bed, kissing each other hungrily, Aramis’ hand sliding slick up and down Porthos’ cock, the sight making something flip in d’Artagnan’s stomach to realise _they do this together – all of them?_ _–_ and he twists back round to look up at Athos, searching for confirmation, though in his heart he believes he already knows the answer.

“This is –” Athos manages, but he’s clearly at a loss for words; and improbably enough d’Artagnan finds himself smiling up at him, trying to convey that he understands, that Athos doesn’t have to explain himself, not when they’re showing him, letting him inside.

He wonders if this was what they always meant to do; or if what started out as having a bit of fun with the new boy took them just as much by surprise when it became something else, something more.

“Alright,” Porthos is saying, pulling away from Aramis’ embrace as he gets off the bed and starts shedding layers, “get those hips up.”

“Right away,” Aramis agrees, moving over and scooping d’Artagnan’s legs up in his arms, rolling his hips back until he’s bent almost double as a pillow is propped underneath his arse, Aramis releasing his shins but keeping the pressure on his thighs until he tucks his legs into his chest, watching Porthos kneel on edge of the bed before him in just his open braies, his cock thick and glistening, with not inconsiderable nerves.

“Hey.” Aramis lies down on his side next to d’Artagnan, drawing his attention, his still-oily hand reaching out to pull at his nipple, making d’Artagnan gasp to feel how sensitive he still is there. “Don’t think about Porthos now. Just focus on us. We’ve got you.” Athos’ hand reaches down to roll his other nipple, Aramis’ hand moving between d’Artagnan’s legs, cupping his balls before gripping his shaft, starting to coax him back to hardness.

“Let’s see how you’re doing,” Porthos picks up, rubbing the flats of his fingers over d’Artagnan’s hole before dipping inside, stretching a little, d’Artagnan gasping with the way it _aches_ suddenly. “Mm, lovely and loose. I think you’ll do just fine,” he decides, smearing his wet fingers over d’Artagnan’s thigh.

“You’ll be a bit sore, but we’ll make you feel so good you won’t even mind,” Aramis declares confidently, as d’Artagnan sighs out in pleasure as his cock grows hard again between Aramis’ practised strokes and Athos’ hand splayed over his chest, moving between his nipples to pinch and caress. “Remember what Porthos did with his fingers earlier? He’s going to do that with his cock this time. He’s going to come inside you, and you’re going to come on his cock. And when Athos takes you you’ll be so sensitive that every moment will be the sweetest agony.”

D’Artagnan doesn’t know what the hell to say to that at all; and he finds himself looking desperately up at Athos with his mouth open wide and panting, torn between desire and fear and longing more than anything for Athos’ soothing touch, his words, his reassurance.

He doesn’t care any more that Athos can see his naked need, not now with Porthos lining himself up against his entrance and in the knowledge that he has so much left still to take; he realises at last that he can’t do this without them, and it occurs to him in the last moment before Porthos _pushes_ and all he is becomes one overwhelming ache that perhaps Aramis wasn’t so full of shit after all.

He closes his eyes and just lets himself whimper as Porthos fills him, almost cry out into the mouth that covers his – _Athos_ , it must be, because Aramis is there and saying in his ear, “This is the hardest part, you’re doing good. Just keep breathing. You’re doing it, you’re taking him so well. Almost there. There you go.”

It takes d’Artagnan a moment to catch up and realise that Porthos has stilled inside him; and he takes a great heaving breath, then another, Athos leaning back a little until d’Artagnan can focus on his face. “Alright?” he asks, very quietly, his palm flat against d’Artagnan’s breastbone.

D’Artagnan nods, barely finding the breath to say, “Yes.” He’d thought Aramis made him feel full, but _this –_ he half-fears he’ll split in two if Porthos tries to move. “Just… I need a moment.”

“Long as you need,” Porthos promises, leaning his weight a little more on d’Artagnan’s legs.

“You just need a minute or so to get accustomed,” Aramis agrees, hand still playing with d’Artagnan’s now mostly-soft cock. “Muscles can be trained, after all. As can apprentices.”

With the loudness of Porthos’ chuckle, if d’Artagnan hadn’t been looking right at Athos he would have missed the puff of air that escapes his mouth then, accompanied by a curl of the lip and a certain crinkling of the lines around his eyes that makes d’Artagnan realise, _this is a laugh_.

He thinks it might just be the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

 _Fuck._ He’s fallen – or fall _ing_ – and Athos is frowning a little now, as if there’s something in d’Artagnan’s probably all too open expression he’s trying to read; and d’Artagnan panics, he needs to _not think_ right now, needs to not give himself away, needs to go on –

“I’m ready,” he breathes, one hand on Aramis’ leg and the other reaching back behind Athos to wrap around – well, it’s his arse more than his waist, but given the circumstances d’Artagnan thinks he’ll be excused for needing something to hold onto.

Then Porthos begins to pull back – and d’Artagnan can’t help grimacing as it _aches_ again, _burns_ , until their hands are on him again, his cock and his nipples and there’s too much sensation for him to make sense of suddenly, pleasure and pain all mixed-up together, and Porthos pushes forward and _that feeling_ cuts through everything else like sunlight, warm and _God_ and yes, yes, _yes –_

And this time, it doesn’t stop: Porthos keeps on moving, and every time he finds that place inside d’Artagnan that drugs him with more potency than wine, that instead of making him heavy and sluggish makes him froth and glow and makes everything _more_ , more more more, his lips are mouthing but the noises he makes are just that, gasps and moans punched out of him with every thrust, it still burns a little but right now he feels as though he would do anything, _anything_ for this, give all he’s ever wanted just to _feel –_

Athos’ fingers against his jaw and he turns his head and sucks them into his mouth, curling his tongue around the pads and wishing they were Athos’ cock, that d’Artagnan could just get on his knees and _show_ him – and he’s close, _close,_ he can’t, he _can’t_ –

“ _No_. Not yet,” Athos says, pulling his fingers from d’Artagnan’s mouth and pressing them wet against his cheek. “Look at me. I’ll tell you when.”

 _I can’t_ , d’Artagnan wants to say, but perhaps he can’t find the words or perhaps he doesn’t dare, not with Athos’ eyes so steady and blue on his, Aramis’ hand yanking at his balls again (and it _hurts_ , he thinks, but he barely knows pleasure from pain any more) and he gasps, hears Porthos groan as he slams into him with such force, it feels like everything’s on _fire_ inside him –

And Athos is saying, “Now. Come for us,” and d’Artagnan lets go, lets go of everything and lets it rush tear blaze through his body as he shakes and clamps down on the cock inside him, his own cock jerking wildly in Aramis’ hand and his eyes losing focus on Athos’ face as he groans and shoots once, twice, three times, all over his belly just before Porthos comes inside him, thrusting raggedly and filling him with warmth; and d’Artagnan’s glad he’s pulling out already because it suddenly _aches_ again even worse than before, and he has to grit his teeth against the pain.

“Shh.” Athos’ fingers are stroking his hair back off his forehead, skating over the thin sheen of sweat that’s formed there. “Almost there.”

D’Artagnan opens his mouth to reply but can’t quite get there, his throat dry and clicking, and he settles for a shaky nod, trying not to dislodge Athos’ hand, and its all-too-gentle touch; though he lifts his head and looks down when he feels a wetness on his stomach and sees Aramis with a wet cloth, cleaning him up. He winks when he meets d’Artagnan’s eye, and d’Artagnan just lets his head fall back and closes his eyes, trying not to think about the fact that the cloth is dipping down between his legs too, dabbing over his hole.

He’s encouraged to sit up, after, leaning against Athos’ side; and there’s more wine, which d’Artagnan tries not to gulp too quickly as he pretends not to notice that the other three are having a silent conversation over his head once again.

He aches steadily between his legs, and his body would much rather sleep than take a third; and he finds himself looking nervously between their faces, wondering if they’re also having second thoughts. If he is still to take Athos as well then he’s truly not sure he can do so, not without it just being unpleasantly painful.

But when Athos gives him a sideways look and says, “We can stop this now. You don’t need to –” then d’Artagnan’s already shaking his head.

“No, it’s fine.” He winces internally as soon as he says it – _curse_ his stubborn pride, if even they don’t think he should – but this is _Athos_ , looking at him with such noble gravity that d’Artagnan _knows_ bone deep he would follow this man into death and battle, unnameable peril, and if this is to be the sealing of their brotherly bond then he will not leave it half-finished.

“Hmm.” Aramis gives him a sharp look. “Let me examine you, then. I want to be certain we haven’t injured you.”

The indignity is enough that it’s on d’Artagnan’s lips to refuse; but there is none of the playfulness in Aramis’ manner that there was the last time they spoke of _examining_ him. This is true concern, and so he turns over for Aramis to press a questing finger inside him, unable to hold back a sharp hiss that he can feel draw everyone’s attention.

“I’m alright,” he says defensively, though he’s not sure it’s convincing.

All Aramis says is, “Tell me if you feel any sharp pains,” as he screws his finger around inside d’Artagnan, pushing around the muscle of his entrance.

“No,” d’Artagnan replies truthfully, “it just aches,” and it’s steady but not insurmountable, he decides, no worse than the worst of his aches and pains from a hard week of soldiering.

“Alright.” Aramis withdraws his finger, patting d’Artagnan on the rump before reaching for the discarded cloth to wipe his hands. “You’re a little swollen, but that’s to be expected. But if nothing’s torn, then…” He shrugs.

“Perhaps –” d’Artagnan clears his throat, looking awkwardly at Athos – “make it quick?”

“You could suck him first?” Porthos suggests. “Right to the brink, then he’ll only need a few strokes to come inside you.”

D’Artagnan nods quickly, shifting so he’s in front of Athos and putting his hands on his thighs, looking into his face and asking silently for permission. He doesn’t want to wait, to _talk_ any more, still wet and open with them looking at him the way they are; he wants to lose himself again, and take everything that’s given him, every inch.

Something shifts in Athos’ face as they look at each other; and d’Artagnan can’t tell what it means, but he’s not sure it matters as Athos reaches up and takes his face in his hands, pulling him close and kissing him deep.

D’Artagnan relaxes into the kiss almost immediately, the warmth and rightness of Athos here against him, his hands gently guiding as d’Artagnan slides his own hands up to Athos’ crotch, enjoying the stutter of breath into his own mouth at the brief pressure over Athos’ cock before d’Artagnan finds the buttons of his breeches and opens them, one by one.

One of Athos’ hands drops down to grasp d’Artagnan’s cock, his touch little more than a gentle caress; and d’Artagnan hisses in pleasure, he’s sensitive but that doesn’t mean it isn’t good, his cock giving a twitch of interest and making him wonder if he could get hard again already.

“Oh, to be young again,” Aramis comments airily from somewhere beside Athos; but d’Artagnan doesn’t care. This is about him and Athos now, as he scrabbles ineffectually at the laces of his braies until he feels Athos smile against his lips and another hand comes from somewhere to help him, and finally he can reach in and draw his cock out, hot and hard in his hand, kissing Athos’ gasp of pleasure from his lips as he touches him.

“Down you go,” Porthos says, cutting into the moment – and when d’Artagnan turns his head to glare at him, he sees he’s lying beside them with Aramis stretched out along his side and his head against Porthos’ chest, the two of them pressed together like lovers.

Instead he just gives them both a cheeky grin before shifting back on his knees, bracing himself against Athos’ thighs as he grips the base of his cock in the fingers of his right hand, pointing it towards his mouth and leaning forward to take him inside.

He’s tentative at first, gentle, learning Athos’ cock with lips and tongue, its weight and texture, breathing in his scent; and then hands come down to tangle in his hair and encourage him deeper, and d’Artagnan thinks _yes, have me_ and follows them gladly down until his mouth’s full and Athos’ cock bumps the back of his throat, making him gag a little in surprise.

He pulls back, flicking his eyes up to where Athos is studying him intently, his eyes dark and his irises a thin ring of blue as he pulls d’Artagnan back onto his cock and into a rhythm, gently fucking his face, but never urging him deeper than he can take – and d’Artagnan knows with sudden certainty that this is exactly how it’ll always be with them, both in bed and out. Athos will lead with a firm hand, never pushing d’Artagnan too far but always just as much as he needs; and d’Artagnan will go gladly where he’s led and take what he’s given because this is what it means to be a soldier, a servant, a brother.

Athos is holding him deep for longer and longer and d’Artagnan just tries to breathe through his nose as he drools around the cock in his mouth, feels his own cock hardening untouched, just from sucking Athos, from the hands holding him in place. He doesn’t know if he’ll come again but he hopes it’ll be enough at least to make this good for him, for the pleasure to confuse the pain until all he feels is sensation upon sensation.

When Athos pulls him off his cock d’Artagnan’s gasping for air and he’s horribly aware of the saliva running down his chin, and still Athos is looking at him as though he’s something remarkable.

“On my lap,” he says, a gentle command; and d’Artagnan hardly dares breathe as he straddles him and wraps his arms around Athos’ shoulders, Athos pulling him close with one hand in the small of his back as the other dips down to probe at his entrance, at the wetness that d’Artagnan realises to his shame is seeping out of him, dripping slowly down between his thighs.

“Aramis, the oil?” Athos asks; and d’Artagnan rests his chin against the crown of Athos’ head and just breathes for a few moments as he listens to Athos slick himself up, gathering his courage for what’s to come, before he feels another pair of hands on his hips.

“I’m gonna help you move,” Porthos says against his ear, “and Aramis is gonna touch you. Ready?”

“Ready,” d’Artagnan agrees, putting his weight on Athos’ shoulders and letting Porthos lower him down until Athos’ cock is pressing against him, trying hard not to flinch as the ache returns, and then _thank God_ Aramis is stroking him already as it only builds and builds, overwhelming him until he thinks _no_ , he can’t, he won’t be able to bear it, the strange animal sounds he can hear are coming from his open mouth and then he’s _breached_ and sinking down, down, further than he thinks possible, Porthos’ hands on him only slowing his fall until he bottoms out in Athos’ lap, the buttons of his breeches digging into his arse and Athos’ face coming almost level with his, tilting up to look at him as though he’s something wondrous.

“Kiss me,” he commands; and d’Artagnan obeys, pouring all his energy into the kiss as two sets of hands start to lift him back and forth until he thinks he’ll lose his wits with it, so much, _too_ much even before Athos finds _that place_ inside of him that makes him feel like he’s exploding and hits it over and over till he’s clenching, clenching _already_ and it _hurts_ but it’s _good_ and he can’t stop – _can’t_ – can’t think can’t _anything –_ it’s like a fever and he’s _shaking,_ crying out – _Athos_ –

– who’s groaning and clutching him tight and shuddering inside him, coming hot inside him and kissing him hard enough to bruise, kissing the fever away until all he’s left with is the ache, the ache that has him whining around Athos’ tongue until he realises there are hands on him, calming him, and Aramis is saying, “Shh, shh, we just have to lift you off.”

And that hurts again, _properly_ , he feels nothing less than raw inside; but it’s not long before it’s over and he’s being laid out on the mattress, his limbs like lead and his mind wiped utterly blank, too wrung out to even care when his leg’s lifted and he’s wiped carefully clean, curling in on himself and shaking, why is he shaking, have they really fucked him feverish…?

Then a blanket’s pulled over his body and strong arms wrap around him from behind – Porthos, he decides – and he hears Aramis’ voice saying, “Your nerves are just overtaxed, d’Artagnan, I’ve seen it before. They’ll settle down in a few moments.”

And sure enough, the shaking stops before long, d’Artagnan burrowing deep into Porthos’ arms and taking his comfort without caring what any of them think of him for it; and then he lets himself be coaxed out of bed and over to the washstand, drinking a little wine and getting back into his linens. As he finishes dressing, he sees that Aramis and Porthos are already under the blankets, and Porthos is gesturing to the space beside him; he supposes they’re all staying tonight then, and though now he’s calm and quiet he can still hear faint moans coming through the wall, he’s slept through far worse.

Besides. He’d never slept alone until he came to Paris; and now that he’s climbing into the bed and pressing up against Porthos’ solid warmth, Athos getting in behind him, he realises that he’d _missed_ this, like an ache in his heart.

 _Family_ , he thinks, and though the pain of what he’s lost is still sharp in his chest he feels something new blooming beside it, a fresh green shoot, and snuggles deeper under the blankets, soaking up their warmth.

“How are you feeling?” Athos asks, his hand resting lightly on d’Artagnan’s hip as though he isn’t sure whether or not his embrace would be welcomed; and d’Artagnan takes his arm and pulls it around his waist as he replies, “Sore.”

That’s the truth, though not the whole truth; in fact the closest he thinks he can get is to say _warm_ all over, full of a new affection and understanding, his body heavy and sated and his heart swelling with a strange pride. Tonight he’s proved himself; and though he may not have his commission he feels half a Musketeer already, and fully a brother.

He hides his grin in the linen of Porthos’ shirt, and lets the sound of his friends’ regular breathing lull him into a peaceful and well-deserved sleep.


End file.
